


His Lord

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Although it isn't really a relationship as such, Infatuation, Insanity, M/M, Stream of Consciousness, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 10:31:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15993374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: What Voldemort means to Barty





	His Lord

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this monstrosity to relieve the boredom of insomnia, so I'm not really functioning properly so forgive whatever this actually is

His Lord was his master and he would do anything he asked. 

His Lord was his comrade. They fought for the same goal, the same dream that he didn’t understand but his Lord spoke with such eloquence about. He was content to be his servant, to be the one his Lord relied on so much. He was the light that reflected his Lord’s brilliance back at the world, making everyone admire him just as much as he himself did. He would follow him to the end, and he did not care what that end might be. He would gladly die for his Lord, gladly die a thousand deaths to spare his Lord. That was what comrades did, protect each other, and he would always protect his Lord. 

His Lord was his guiding light. The one who would show him the true path in life, the one who knew what the right path was. His Lord knew more than he thought possible, and he would show him the way. The path his Lord walked was paved with gold and he was content to follow, to live the same way, love the same things, hate the same people. He would always follow no matter where his Lord went, no matter the suffering, no matter the horrors that he could encounter, if his Lord went then he would follow. He would go to the darkest corners of the world if it meant he could be by his Lord’s side. 

His Lord was his mentor. He would teach him how to be a great wizard. He would tell him he wasn’t mad, that he had greatness in his heart. He was prepared to listen to every word his Lord said because his Lord was always right. His Lord would hold his wrists, teach him how the world worked, teach him how to get what he wanted using all the nasty spells that sounded so good on his Lord’s tongue. He was the most willing pupil of a teacher that was so proud to give him everything he yearned for. 

His Lord was his father-figure. The one who understood him like no one else ever would, the one who knew what shadows clouded his mind and the one who knew how to dispel the darkness. His Lord admired him for his strength, was so proud of his achievements, he was everything a father should be. Understanding, caring, a listener. Everything his real father wasn’t. He was not ashamed of his Lord like he was of his true father, and he knew his Lord felt the same of his own father. They were bound like that, trapped together by a shared experience, and he liked not having to be ashamed of who he was anymore, liked being open and free from the whispering words of his true father that always fogged his mind. 

His Lord was his protector. He sheltered him, held him when it all got too much. Held him when the pounding in his head returned. His Lord was so kind, so gentle, so accommodating. His Lord saw when he lost his sight when he heard nothing but the blank unending silence and the rhythmic thud of his heart. When the nightmares wracked his body, when he woke up screaming, never knowing where he was, his own sweat soaking the sheets, his Lord was by his side. His Lord touched his forearm, tracing that special mark that bound them. His nails were calming, and he listened to what horrors lurked in the darkest parts of his mind. His Lord was never angry with him, he understood and he would promise him the world in those silent moments, and he was so willing to oblige for such safety. 

His Lord was his infatuation. His Lord confided in him, trusted him with his darkest secrets. He was special, his Lord always told him so. He wanted to be beside his Lord all the time, protect him from the others, the ones who would hurt him to steal his crown. His Lord meant more to him than his entire life, more to him, than everything in the entire world. He would do anything to hold his Lord’s gaze for longer than a second, to have his Lord’s eyes linger on his own, for his Lord to understand what he would do for him. His entire purpose was the be with his Lord, to serve him in every way imaginable, that was why he was on the earth, it was the reason for his divine creation. 

His Lord was his need. The one whose presence made his legs weak. The one who made his stomach tie itself in knots. There was such power in his Lord, such control, such cruelty. It made him breathless and aching to think of that immoderate cruelty, that extravagant sadism, that unrestrained callousness. There was art in such excruciating pain, such debauched horror, and how did he want to be its victim. To have his Lord so deep inside his head and let him tear him apart. He would be such willing prey, would slit himself open if that was what his Lord wanted, he’d let him feed on his body, let him do whatever he wanted: consume his heart and strip his bones of their flesh. Those were the moments he dreamed of, the sickening fantasies he entertained. He could almost feel his Lord’s hands on him, those sharp nails splitting him open, feel the blood slide down his white body, staining red rivers into his skin. He touched himself to those depraved dreams. Wanting more than anything to let his Lord see the precious pure blood he loved so much pouring from his veins. He had cried out so many times in the dark, unable to stop himself shaking afterwards, body shuddering, head tilted back, knowing just how wrong it was to want something so decadent. 

His Lord was his drug. He made the pain go away, made the painful memories just sink into the background. His Lord knew just where to touch his neck, knew exactly how to make him relax, make him stop thinking about all the noise that filled the rooms. His Lord was so good at soothing his mind, making the world blur: the colours running together until everything was just a haze of shapes. He had no idea how long he would lie staring at the ceiling, watching the pattern distort itself, spinning circles above him, revolving halos for his Lord. The air around him was noxious, it made him desperate, anxious to be near his Lord again, to taste that sweet-sour air that made him so dizzy. There was no shame in his craving, in his need for another high, and another, and another. He just wanted to soar above the cloud, wanted to learn what it felt like to be his Lord. He just wanted to be free from the memories one more time and his Lord let him do that. 

His Lord was his master and he would do anything he asked.

**Author's Note:**

> I might rewrite this at some point when I'm less sleep-deprived


End file.
